20: Bathroom Sex
by EloiseAtThePlaza
Summary: Sherlock has been watching her flirt with other men the entire night. He's had enough.


**AN: This is my entry for the "50 Reasons to Have Sherlolly Sex" collaboration. A huge thanks to just-mindy for the beta and to channyfaith for suggesting this take place in a bathroom. Enjoy! **

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Sherlock has been watching her flirt with other men the entire night.

First was the friendly banter with John. It didn't amount to much (John has Mary and although they are both open minded individuals, the chances of them engaging in some sort of sexual activity with a third party are slim to none as they are decidedly monogamous).

Next was Lestrade. Stupid, jovial Lestrade who bought her a drink and wrapped his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close to whisper something in her ear which she had laughed at. The Detective Inspector's behavior was fairly typical (he's separated from his wife [again] and as such he's desperate to prove he's playing the field) but his advances were no less grating and pathetic to watch.

A few more men followed the Inspector's lead. None were successful. Molly doesn't like talking to strangers even when she's had a few drinks. She'd much rather talk to people she knows. She prefers familiarity. She always has. How Anderson weaseled his way into this small group of people that Molly feels comfortable talking to is beyond Sherlock's comprehension. But unlike the other men who'd openly flirted with her, Anderson is the only one who Sherlock sees fit to put a stop to.

"You've had enough to drink, Molly," he tells her, slinking up to the end of the bar where she and Anderson are standing.

Molly whips around to face him, her eyes bright and her cheeks tinged pink from too much wine. "Sherlock!" She says his name like she's greeting an old, forgotten friend and it irks him. Honestly, she should know better than to act so dismissive of their relationship in public.

"We're leaving," Sherlock bites out, refusing to return her cheery smile. Instead he takes her glass away and places it far out of her reach on the bar's counter.

Anderson hasn't said a word but he's watching them both, deciding whether or not to worm his way into the conversation. When Molly turns back to face him he smiles, giving her a wry look that clearly reads 'do you want me to get involved?'.

Sherlock answers the unspoken question on Molly's behalf. "Given that your wife is out of town and it's before midnight I suggest you scurry off and make the most of it, Philip."

Anderson scoffs, pushing away from the bar. "I could say the same for you. You don't exactly look like you're enjoying yourself. Then again, I never figured you for a party-goer. Work must be slow around the holidays, I take it?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I didn't come on my own accord. I was invited as a plus one."

Anderson blinks in surprise. "Who is your date?"

Molly lets out a nervous laugh and backs away, sidling up to Sherlock. After a few seconds of strained silence in which Anderson regards the pair of them with something akin to glee she finally speaks up. "Erm. I am. We're sort of—" She breaks off, searching for words. Anderson's face lights up. A predictable response; since revealing Molly's involvement in faking his death, Sherlock has suspected Anderson fancies the idea of the two of them together. This just confirms it. "…seeing each other, I suppose," Molly finishes lamely, placing her hand on Sherlock's forearm.

Sherlock wrenches away from her touch and makes off in the direction of the toilets. He hears Molly give a half-hearted apology to Anderson before scurrying after him.

"Slow down, will you!" she calls, the heels of her red pumps clacking against the floorboards as she tries to keep up. Sherlock pays her no mind and shoulders his way through the crowded pub until he reaches the corridor in the back of the establishment with washrooms on either side.

Molly comes to stand in front of him. She reaches out but thinks better of it and lets her arm fall to her side. "Sherlock?"

He doesn't respond. He turns around, pushes the swinging door to the ladies toilets inward and holds it open for Molly to walk through. She does but not before wringing her hands and glancing back down the hallway.

Sherlock follows her into the bathroom and locks the door behind them. He hears her breath catch and when he turns to face her, he can see that she's visibly nervous.

"Are you...are you mad at me?" she wonders, shifting from foot to foot.

"You could say that," Sherlock offers as he crouches down to look under the stalls. All of them are empty. He straightens back up and adds, "Though given your behavior tonight I'm surprised you have to ask."

"My behavior?"

"You know good and well what I'm talking about, Molly, so you may as well drop your look of doe-eyed astonishment. It doesn't work on me."

Molly lifts her chin in defiance as he advances on her. "What was I supposed to do? Follow your lead by sitting in a corner and sulking at everyone all night?"

"You could have at least acknowledged that we came together."

"I did!"

"Yes, to Anderson. The last person whose opinion I care about."

In spite of him now towering over her, Molly refuses to break. She crosses her arms and mirrors his combative glare. "I came here to have fun, Sherlock. To socialize. That's what people do at Christmas parties. Excuse me for trying to have a good time."

"You were trying to make me jealous and you know it."

"Well it worked, didn't it?" Molly's humorless laugh stings him in a way he doesn't expect. "After nearly two hours of wondering if you'd ever pry your eyes from that stupid phone of yours, you did. All it took was a little bit of flirting on my part for you to realize that maybe you should take a more active role in this...this _thing_ you insist on calling a 'relationship.'"

"It is a relationship. At least, I thought it was. I am not so sure now that you've just spent the better part of the evening practically throwing yourself at other men."

"Me neither." Molly shuffles from foot to foot again, visibly ruffled. "Because real relationships don't work this way, Sherlock. I shouldn't have to, as you put it, 'throw myself' at other men for you to notice me."

"Don't blame me. It is not my fault that you—"

"Yes, yes it is your fault! You only pay attention to me when it's convenient for you! You disappear for weeks, you seldom call, and then you show up in the middle of the night to fuck me and then leave before I can even so much as talk to you!"

"The time of day in which I decide to visit you is irrelevant—"

"Shut up, Sherlock. Just shut up!" Molly jabs a finger at his chest. He makes a grab for her hand but she backs away. "You're trying to argue the particulars but what I'm trying to say is that you've got a lot of nerve if you expect _me_ to pay attention to _you_ when you never put in the effort!"

"That's honestly what you think of me?"

Molly nods, huffing out a breath. "You insist on calling yourself my boyfriend but frankly, Sherlock, you're a piss poor excuse for one. And I'm not just saying that because I'm tipsy. You're rude, inconsiderate, lousy at sex and—"

"Say that again."

Molly blinks, confused. "I said you're rude—"

"The last bit."

Color drains from Molly's face. She didn't mean to say it aloud, he realizes now. But emboldened by her drinking she let it slip anyway.

So she's going to pay for it. Oh, she's going to pay, though probably not in the way she expects.

"Take off your knickers," Sherlock orders, holding out his hand.

Molly's mouth drops open. "What? No!"

"I said _take them off_. Now. Give them to me."

This time Molly doesn't put up a fuss. She works her panties down her legs, steps out of them and then hands them over, her eyes slightly wary but gleaming with mounting excitement. Not giving her a chance to question his motives, Sherlock stuffs her knickers into his pocket before wrapping his arms around her waist, hoisting her up and over to the sink to set her on the counter.

"Sherlock, what—"

He silences her with a rough, bruising kiss. It's meant to put her in her place instead of arouse her but it does both, actually; her neck is flushed and her heavy-lidded eyes are trained on his lips when he finally pulls back.

"If you think you can get away with blatant flirting _and_ calling me a lousy fuck in one night, Molly, you are very much mistaken," Sherlock bites out. He backs away long enough to undo his belt and pull the length of leather from around his waist.

Molly watches him undress with wide eyes. "I didn't mean it." She pulls the hem of her dress down from where it's rucked up past her knees. "It's just…I was upset. I'm_ still_ upset, but that doesn't mean that I was serious—"

"You were completely serious," Sherlock cuts her off. He crowds in on her again and pushes her knees apart. This time the fabric of her dress bunches up around her waist, leaving her pussy exposed for him. He reaches with his right hand and runs his index finger up and down her slit several times, reveling in how warm she feels.

Sherlock presses their lips together again to quiet Molly's keening from his touching her. This kiss is different from the last. It's possessive and heated but it lacks the ferocity from before because Sherlock has his mind made up. He's not going to punish her with words or silence; he's going to tease her until she's a writhing mess and he's satisfied that she finally sees the error of her ways. He may be a poor excuse for a partner but he is _not_ a poor excuse for a lover. He has no idea where Molly got the idea from but it ends tonight. Before this is over and they're both gasping for breath from shagging each other senseless, Molly won't have a doubt in her mind as to whether Sherlock is a fucking fantastic lover. She'll _know_.

"Sherlock," Molly moans against his lips, reaching between them to still his hand. "We can't do this here."

"I've locked the door and the bartender owes me a favor. We won't be bothered."

"But—"

"_Molly_," Sherlock warns. He continues to gently rub her clitoris and Molly practically melts under his ministrations. "I can feel how much you want to. God, you're already dripping wet for me and we've barely started."

Molly lets out another moan in response and tilts her head back until it bumps the mirror behind her. Sherlock reigns in his smug smile and continues to touch her until his hands smell like her cunt and her juices coat his fingers. Only then does he unzip his trousers to pull his cock out.

He's hard and leaking from the tip but that's hardly a surprise seeing as Molly is responding just like he wants her to. Better yet, she's eager to continue. He can feel her eyes on him as he languorously strokes himself, spreading the pre-come over the head with his thumb.

Sherlock looks up at her. Though Molly continues to watch his hand move up and down, she swallows as though she's unused to being the sole focus of his penetrative gaze. Perhaps that is how she feels. Perhaps she's oblivious to all the times Sherlock has found himself staring at her only to look away before she catches him.

Now is as good a time as any to rectify that; to banish any lingering doubts from her silly head as to whether she occupies a considerable number of his thoughts and takes up several rooms in his mind.

"If I'm such a lousy fuck, Molly, then why are you so wet? If I'm such a lousy fuck then why are your pupils dilated as you watch me stroke myself, hmm?"

Molly peels her eyes away from his actions long enough to give him a half-hearted scowl. "I didn't mean it, you prat. Would you please just shut up and fuck me?" With a little maneuvering she leans back on the sink's countertop, revealing glistening, dewy flesh to his gaze. She spreads herself open with her middle and pointer finger and glances up at him again.

The sight she presents is admittedly very tempting. Sherlock could easily set his plan to the side and give in to what she wants. Fuck her quick and hard. No method, no technique. Just his cock slipping in and out of her body with just enough friction to result in a marginally satisfactory climax for them both.

But he doesn't want that. Oh, no. He wants Molly to flounder with need. He wants to push her to the edge only to deny her. He wants her climax to rip through her, to drown her. A five minute fix isn't nearly enough time to accomplish that.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Sherlock hisses. He leans in, aligning their bodies together. "To get it all over with in a matter of minutes? A quick shag with minimal fuss?"

Molly nods enthusiastically, gripping the countertop in anticipation. Rocking his hips forward, Sherlock rubs the length of his cock along her slick opening. She gasps at the tantalizing friction and tilts her pelvis so that he can easily slip inside.

It's a subtle, clever move on her part but Sherlock sees right through it.

"Too bad," he murmurs, taking his cock in hand again. Molly whimpers at the sudden loss of his body brushing against hers but Sherlock pays no mind to the desperate sound. "This is far more fun, don't you think?" Not waiting for a reply, he takes the tip of his cock in hand and slaps it lightly against the hood of her clitoris.

Molly's cries are music to his ears, spurring him to keep on teasing her until her eyes are clenched tight and her chest is rapidly moving up and down from shallow breaths.

"More?" Sherlock questions. He resumes the rhythmic slide of his skin against hers.

"Yes! Yes, please. _God_, Sherlock, please." Molly's hands rove over his back, pawing at his jacket.

"Jump off the sink. Turn around with your back facing me."

Molly stumbles in her haste to obey.

"Bend over," he orders.

She complies, presenting her backside. Sherlock takes a moment to appreciate her creamy thighs and bare arse. Her curves are subtle and far from voluptuous but they are his. His to observe, his to touch, his to fondle, to spank…

"Sherlock!" Molly squeals as his hand slaps one soft, round cheek of her behind. Color quickly blooms to her skin's surface. He spanks the other cheek for good measure and this time she moans at the contact.

"You like that." He makes it a statement, not a question, because it's obvious from her sticky thighs and wet cunt that she's enjoying every moment of this.

"Maybe. A little." Molly looks over her shoulder at him and bites her lip. "It's just, you've never done that before…when we're—"

"I'll make a point to do so in the future. Anything to rectify the ridiculous notion that I somehow fall short as a lover."

Molly grumbles her disapproval for his pointed barb but drops her head in an act of compliance. She's bound to get dizzy from the blood rush but that is exactly what Sherlock wants; for her to be disoriented, wobbly and uncomfortable in her red pumps, her mind and body his to manipulate in any way he sees fit.

"Spread your legs for me," he commands, and his cock pulses with pleasure as he watches her teeter in her high heels, trying to regain control of her shaky legs. Once their bodies are aligned, Molly's back a beautiful straight line and her rear pressed against his crotch, Sherlock grabs hold of her hair and lightly pulls until he's certain she can see herself in the mirror opposite.

"Look at that, Molly," he murmurs, wrapping her hair around his hand.

"Look at what?" she gasps.

"How greedy you are for my cock." Sherlock grips his erection by the base and nudges the tip between the folds of Molly's sex. The damp heat of her skin welcomes him and he shudders from the amount of self-control it takes to pause for a moment and make sure she's still looking at her reflection.

She is, and the amount of pure, unadulterated desire that is plainly etched across her face – desire for_ him_ – is enough to soften the blow of her hurtful words from before. There is no denying the fact that their relationship needs work and there is no escaping the reality that Molly is, for the large part, unsatisfied with the amount of physical and emotional comfort he shows her.

But for right now, they have this, and as Sherlock_ finally_ sinks into the tight, velvety heat of Molly's body, he vows to make every minute worth its while. For her.


End file.
